The Young Prince
by MrNameless12472
Summary: A short oneshot in which we follow a day in the life of newly-ascended Viceroy of Area 11, Clovis La Britannia. Possibly some unintentional references to a Clovis x Lloyd pairing I invented.


'So these are those few who dare to make a stand against my nation? How very brave of you... oh yes, I can see you've fought hard, my little friends. I may present somewhat of a different administration to that which you've been used to. Things are going to be different with me around, and this is why I command you, soldiers. Let these Elevens go!'

The young prince spun on his heel and smirked as he trotted out of the cell, preferring his own thoughts of returning to his painting back at the villa to the incessant squabbling and protests of the soldiers.

Narcissistic, naïve and careless he might be, but with family like his, how else would he turn out? Odysseus, wasting away his time waiting on father's death and making political deals, while Schneisel shut himself off designing fantastic inventions with no practical application. The only ones that were even remotely likeable were Lelouch, who in any case had disappeared six years ago, and Euphemia, his half sister who he doubted was old enough to remember who he was.

No, third place suited Clovis fine. Third. The bronze medal. A comfortable existance in an out-of-the-way Area, interrupted only by the occasional uprising- usually dealt with by a swift and large dosage of Knightmare Frame.

'What pleasures await me now?' he wondered aloud, a slender, gloved handing extending to the glowing console by the throne while his bright blue eyes scanned the list of messages. More public appearances, military briefings, information from scientists. With a flourish and a sigh, Clovis hit the delete key until all remnants of the disturbances were eliminated. Rather like the Resistance, he thought, a grin spreading across his face.

Lying across the throne, the prince kicked off his boots, twirled his hair absent-mindedly and stared at the ceiling. He'd never before appreciated just how good a job the construction was on this replica of the villa he grew up in. Having wandered it's halls several times, he really ought to have, but his mind was all too often filled with fashion designs and idle musings on the Clovisland theme park he would probably never build.

Clovis's true passion, however, lay in painting. The Britannian National Gallery in Pendragon held an entire wing devoted to His Highness, as the sign proclaimed, and another smirk crossed his thin lips as he considered what the public would think of his real opinions on the royal family. Yes, they held the key to progressing the most powerful nation on the planet, but all this killing and dying to become emperor? The appearances, the meetings, the travel, the company. With all that, who wanted to be in charge?

'I, Prince Clovis La Britannia, command yo-' he started at nobody in particular, wanting to test how he would come across as a leader, before slapping himself on the forehead, flicking his hair back into place and deciding never to try that again. If the worst came to the worst and he had to become emperor, he'd just make some changes to the family tree and put Cornelia in his place.

Now there was a woman with the drive, ambition and authority to lead. It seemed she'd stolen his share (not that he minded) in fact, as she was quite as mad as that rather brilliant scientist with the blue-grey hair, albeit with none of his redeeming qualities of intelligence and charm.

Half rolling from the throne, Clovis gave an incredulous look to the general scowling at him from across the room. It appeared doors were now merely symbolic and knocking a thing of the past.

'Can I help you?' he began.

'I believe you can, your highness. This is Earl Lloyd Asplund, head of the Camelot research team, and his assistant, Cécile.'

The general gave a stiff bow and gestured towards the white-coated man strolling through the door, pausing briefly to remove his gloves, stare towards Clovis and proclaim him to be 'interesting'.

It was the scientist with the blue-grey hair. Or Lloyd, as he supposed he was to call him. A girl had stepped up beside him.

'So what do you think?'

'Oh, he's definitely built like a prince. But then maybe he doesn't act like it, we'll see, shall we?'

Clovis was acutely aware that the pair were acting as though he didn't exist, though this apparently vanished once they turned to face him.

'Can I help you?' he repeated.

'Well THAT all depends on how much you'll be willing to spend on our little project now, doesn't it?The lovely Cécile and myself are working on a very special weapon that we believe might be just the ticket for finally winning over those resistance fellows giving you so much trouble...

'And what weapon might this be?'

'Oh, well where would the fun be if I was to just tell you all about it? All I'll say is that you'd need a thousand of those new Sutherlands I've been hearing so much about to stand against it. I do believe YOU at least might understand what that means for the resistance. I'll leave some details with the good General here, and then hopefully you can approve our budget.'

'A-alright?'

'That's a Britannian Prince for you, always confused when they meet a man with an idea... Goodbye, my lord.'

Without another word, Lloyd walked briskly through the door he entered, his coat tails fanning out behind him, leaving the unmistakeable air of a man who clearly knew when he was in charge of the situation.

Whatever this weapon turned out to be, Clovis felt sure that it would either be a brilliant piece of designing from a fantastic mind, or an overpriced toy for the commanders to fly around their families with. Whatever helped him improve his relations with father, he'd be thankful for; given the size of Charles's inheritance, this was quite understandable.

He made a mental note to approve the weapon at the next chance, but now was the time to enjoy the finer things in life- fingertips dancing across his computer, the strains of soft classical music echoed as if from nowhere, only to be swiftly placed with the familiar sound of Japanese pop music- the prince's guilty pleasure.

Jabbing at another button, this time mounted on the wall, a screen descended from a slot in the ceiling. Familiar start-up music played from another hidden set of speakers; Clovis's collection of Eleven equipment included their video games systems, a useful method of staving off the incredible boredom that came with ruling over Area 11, although they provided no assistance to his stiff posture- he was in many ways the model of a perfectly dressed royal, yet shoulder pads, knee-length boots and fitted jackets gave little in the way of comfort.


End file.
